


musical master, play harder and faster

by thefudge



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark!Five, F/M, Possessive Behavior, Pseudo-Incest, Tropes, manipulative!five, season 1-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26221291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: AU. The boy’s mouth curls like a lizard’s tail. (or Five returns for his sister)
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy/Vanya Hargreeves
Comments: 22
Kudos: 206





	musical master, play harder and faster

**Author's Note:**

> well, i knew i had another fiveya oneshot in me and here it is!  
> i'm not suuuuper happy with how it turned out, but at the same time i kind of indulged in some tropes, so i'm gonna let that be my excuse. this is kind of AU, but if we had to figure out a timeline, it would probably take place during season 1.  
> the title is taken from "you belong to me" by cat pierce. hope you enjoy!

Vanya wrinkles her nose at the oceanfront compound which takes up half the scenery. She can’t see the beach anymore. The twin mock-Georgian mansions lie bloated in the sun, white and pink like skinned chicken. Even though the sprawling lawns are lush and wet with running sprinklers, the green around her looks lifeless and she feels a dryness in her throat. 

“Watch your head, Vee,” Angus warns as he and Warren carry the instrument cases out of the van. 

Vanya ducks. Suyin slips out of the van with their dress suits. 

“Let me guess,” the petite woman says, looking at her face, “you already hate it.”

Vanya snorts. “Hey, a gig’s a gig. Let me help you with that.”

The two walk down a lilac-boxed alley towards the staff wing where they’ve been told they can change. 

Vanya looks up. 

A small flock of guests are already drinking champagne on the mezzanine.

But it’s the terrace at the top of the house that draws her eyes. She can’t tell his features from this distance, but there’s a boy sitting on the ledge with one foot propped up and the other dangling in the air. One small push and he’d go over. She doesn’t want to think about the drop down. He tilts his head in her direction, but Vanya is pretty sure he can’t see her. 

She walks on.

There’s something about these old houses, which aren’t actually that old, that makes her skin crawl. Perhaps it’s the fact that they have accumulated this overcoat of counterfeit history, to the point where their owners feel like they have a right to the land and the beach and the ocean. Perhaps it’s the fact that she grew up in a house like this, where her father also tried to make counterfeit history. In any case, she looks on these patriarchal edifices with utmost suspicion. Suyin tells her to lighten up as she stuffs a canapé in her mouth. At least they’re getting a free dinner out of this. She hasn’t had lobster in _forever_.

“Besides, if you want, we can steal some gift bags when no one’s looking. You know, as a political statement.”

Vanya smiles. She pulls her quickly in the open doorway of a linen closet and kisses her on the mouth, quick yet lasting, caressing the side of her face. Suyin breaks away with a shy smile. She runs nervous fingers down Vanya’s dinner jacket.

“Have I mentioned how much I love you in a suit?”

“Not as much as I love you in this dress,” Vanya murmurs, tugging the sash at the back of Suyin’s black number, threatening to unravel it.

Suyin slaps her hand away. “Stop being naughty. You’ll put me off my Liszt.”

“Oh, I think he’ll live.”

But Suyin slips away from her embrace with a kittenish laugh. “See you out there.”

Vanya stands in the doorway for a moment longer, alone.

To her left, there’s a narrow winding staircase, only used by staff. She could’ve sworn she saw a shadow there.

The sooner they play their set and get out of here, the better.

Everybody loves a string quartet, in theory.

At first, watching four people play violins and violas and cellos is riveting, even a novelty, because there’s something piecemeal about it, like seeing the skeleton of music. It’s different from a big orchestra, more humble yet more urgent.

After a while, though, even the biggest aficionado slips past them politely. The music is lovely, their rendition of Bartok quietly overpowering, but there’s only so much you can do with strings.

This is why, after half an hour or so of playing, Vanya can relax a little. No one is really paying their little corner of the ballroom much attention. Truth be told, she has always been insecure about her playing. It’s always technically perfect, yet at the same time lacking in true virtuosity, and verging on the wooden and decorative, much like these beautiful, pasteboard houses. That’s why she prefers quartets. It’s actually easier to be mediocre in a group of four than in a big orchestra where every false note is detrimental, because she is made to feel responsible for something bigger than herself.

But rich people in the Hamptons? They just want the violins to sound “distinguished”. They don’t require much deftness of hand. She lets her bow run jagged and careless over the strings because no one is really listening.

And then she sees him.

She doesn’t know why, but she is certain he’s the same boy she spied hanging idly from the terrace. There’s something about the slouched yet very purposeful way he’s leaning against the Aubusson chair that jogs her memory.  
Memory of what? She’s not sure.

How long has he been standing there, watching them?

Her, more specifically, because there’s no mistaking the direction of his gaze.

His fixed stare bears nothing meaningful in it, yet it intimidates her precisely because it’s so ambivalent. It could go either way.

He can’t be more than eighteen, she thinks to herself. Kids don’t scare her anymore. Do they?

He’s probably someone’s nephew come down from a nearby Ivy League for a weekend of boozy, aristocratic excess. His tailored suit certainly says as much. She’s pretty sure that’s a pocket watch chain.

She stares back at him, frowning, telling him wordlessly to look away. She doesn’t need his audience. Her bow skips on the strings.

The boy’s mouth curls like a lizard’s tail. His expression is too remote, too old to be young. It spooks her. 

Vanya’s playing grows more erratic, the music more aggressive and resentful. She hates these people. She used to be one of them, or at least pretended to. She doesn’t want to be reminded.

Suyin is throwing her worried glances, but Vanya doesn’t notice. There’s only this feeling of discomfort and her aching hand on the strings and this arrogant boy watching her, assessing.

The air seems to vibrate with it. Outside the French windows, the ocean waves beat rhythmically against the shore. The champagne glasses clink. Someone clears their throat. The hostess is going to give a big speech. The music dissolves into silence.

But Vanya keeps playing.

Suyin has to tug on her arm. Hard.

“Hey. Didn’t you hear me? You have to stop.”

Vanya drops her violin to the side. The air seems to crackle with sound.

The boy is gone.

She’s standing on the patio with the band, sharing a smoke. The sky doesn’t look ready for nighttime. The stars have come out early. They look washed-out against the cold brightness of dusk. Vanya breathes in the ocean saltiness and feels a little better.

Why is she so goddamn sensitive all the time? Why can’t some things stay buried?

“You kind of spooked me back there. You okay?” Suyin asks, a little arc of worry between her brows. Vanya wishes she could kiss it away.

“Yeah. I just got carried away.”

“You do that sometimes,” Suyin nods, though she doesn’t look any less worried. “I know this isn’t the place to talk about it, but I think maybe going back to seeing Dr. Laplan is a good idea –” 

“You’re right. This isn’t the place to talk about it.”

Vanya crushes her cigarette. She strolls back towards the house, coattails flapping in the breeze.

She stumbles upon what appears to be an impromptu musical moment. With the quartet on a break, a vintage pianoforte has been rolled to the front of the room. And the unnerving boy from before is sitting down to play.

The guests have gathered around him and are watching him with rapt attention. There’s no gossip, no exchanged glances, no stealth yawns, just undivided focus.

Vanya clenches her jaw.

He’s good, but you know, _average_ at best. Nothing extraordinary. And yet he’s commanding their attention so thoroughly. It must be the imposing cut of his shoulders, the way he juts his jaw forward, as if he were trying to take over a country, but he’s only playing a Nocturne.

What’s his secret?

Why does he effortlessly belong?

Of course, the little shit meets her gaze from across the room.

He flicks his wrist over the keys, like he’s trying to show her how it’s done. The guests clap, charmed.

Vanya glares.

She tugs at the knot of her tie. Her throat feels so dry. Fuck, she left her meds in the van.

Her hands shake a little as she unscrews the bottle cap. Why can’t she just be fucking normal?

“You know, I’m the one who should be angry.”

Vanya drops the bottle. It rolls under one of the seats.

She turns around.

She didn’t expect him to stand so close.

Vanya’s back hits the van door.

He’s got his hands in his pockets, looking down at her with seemingly no care in the world, and it doesn’t look like he could do anything to stop her if she pushed past him. But she doesn’t. And he keeps standing a little too close.

“Excuse me?” she snaps.

“I said, I’m the one who should be angry.”

His voice – it’s still got an echo of childhood in it. And she doesn’t know why, but that scares the living shit out of her.

“I mean, out of all of them,” he drawls, “I thought you’d be the one to recognize me. But I guess you’ve been busy with self-flagellating gigs and antidepressants. Oh, and that clueless girlfriend of yours. Quite a life you’ve made for yourself.”

Vanya opens her mouth. She doesn’t know what to say, where to begin. Her mind is overcrowded.

“But the problem is, _Vanya_ ,” and he says her name with special emphasis as he leans forward, “your life isn’t yours alone to waste. We had a _deal_. And I spent the better part of forty years thinking about it.”

She can smell old cologne on his collar. No, she knows he can’t mean it when he says forty years, but…

“What deal? Who the hell are you?” she demands. But in the back of her mind, sparks strike.

“You know who I am,” he says, leaning even closer, and she’s trapped against the car and he’s doing that thing again, where he thinks he can overpower her just with his jaw alone.

She plants a hand on his chest.

“I know you’re a fucking creep. And I don’t want anything to do with you.”

The kid smiles.

“Too bad.”

Vanya sees two figures in the distance. Angus and Suyin. They’ve come to check on her. She exhales in relief.

But the boy puts a cold hand over her mouth and makes her disappear.

She’s somewhere in between places, a physical dreamland where there’s just his arm around her waist and an ocean of time.

But then – she can smell the real ocean.

She’s kneeling on sand. She’s touching it. It’s still warm. And the sky is still too bright for night.

She looks up.

His skin is almost translucent from this angle.

“What the fuck did you do to me?”

He pats down the lapels of his suit. “You’ll get used to it, sis.”

Her stomach flips. She realizes she’s already used to it. They’ve done this before.

“I’m not your sister.”

He crouches down to her level, sleeves hiking up his elbows. He looks like an elegant bird of prey. 

“I suppose we never acted much like siblings.”

And he pulls her towards him with the same familiarity she pulled Suyin in an embrace. And kisses her on the mouth. It’d be more accurate to say he crushes her lips and makes her lose her breath until there’s only the salt of the sea and the feel of sand on her palms.

She opens her eyes. His eyes have been open all this time, watching her.

Vanya shivers as they part.

She touches her mouth. Nothing about this feels real.

“Five?” she croaks.

He slaps her cheek lightly. “Good. We’re making progress.”

“What – why did you do that?”

“We had a deal,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Vanya doesn’t want to remember, but everything comes flooding back. The sea churns in the distance. It seems to retreat from her. It seems to take all life with it. Sand slides away from her hands. The trees in the distance bend in the wind. Everything is running backwards. And the music is sublime.

Five’s fringe suddenly falls in his face. He looks around them, at the weird disturbance of nature, and whistles happily. “That’s more like it.”

Vanya rises to her feet. She reaches for a bow she doesn’t have. She wants to hurt him, just to wipe off that stupid grin.

“What are you smiling about?” she asks.

And he steps closer to her, unafraid. His body glows blue. She can almost taste the surcharge of power flowing from him to her.

“You remember, don’t you?”

Vanya closes her eyes.

They were twelve and sneaking in the kitchen after curfew and they were making peanut butter sandwiches with no jelly, because he hated sweet things, or rather, she was making them for him and he was watching her wield the knife, when he took the knife from her hand and cut down the middle of her palm. He did the same to his own. Blood frothed between them and it did not startle her as it should have. 

They promised to belong to each other in the absolute language of children.

“Mine.”

“Yours.”

She never stopped making sandwiches for him, afterwards. Even when it was clear he wasn't coming back. 

She opens her eyes.

Funny thing is, the cut faded into a faint scar, but she still has it. She hasn’t thought about it in such a long time. She looks down at her hand.

“You left. You’ve been gone all this time.”

“Well, I’ve come back,” he says, full of entitlement, just the same old brat. Except, when he tilts her chin up, his eyes are a little muddy, like there is actual emotion there. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Vanya feels a painful stab of joy, and an equal stab of dread.

The ocean roars in her ears.

She wants to hold him close. She wants to cut him into little pieces and throw him in the sea. 

“When did you learn to play the piano?” she asks numbly.

Five smiles. “I had time to kill. You haven’t gotten much better with the violin, I see.”

“Fuck you.”

She surprises herself with the virulence of her words. But she’s been meaning to say it.

Five’s smile doesn’t waver. She thinks of lizards again. “There’ll be time for that. But first, I need to show you a couple of things.”

Vanya looks back towards the coast. Warm light spills down the manicured lawns. The houses are filled with people who have no idea about this world. Suyin is among them. And her friends. Her life.

“Don’t even think about it, Ivanushka.”

The name makes her teeth chatter. His little nickname for her. The androgynous girl with a Russian boy’s name. He was the one who gave her that book of Russian fairytales where Ivan the Lucky Fool featured prominently. At first, she took offense to the comparison, but when she read the stories, she realized everyone underestimated Ivan’s simple wisdom. He always won.

“You belong to me, remember?”

 _And you belong to me_ , she thinks, because that was how the childish chant went, but she doesn’t want to take possession of him. Not like him. For him, this is a simple, undeniable fact of life. That people belong to him and him alone.

“No one else can have you. No one else _can_ ,” he says softly, reasonably, casting his eyes over the turbulent sea, the uprooted trees, the gashes in the sand. Shards of glass spill on the lawns. The windows have broken.

She made all of this happen. Who else could bear it? Who else could love it but him? 

“I’m going to remind you of that,” he says, more a threat than a promise, and she has one last glimpse of the sea before he wrenches her away from her life.

Any life. 

Five looks down at his sister. Between worlds and time, she blooms white. Her eyes are moons, gazing up at him with fear, but also with a desire to hurt. To pay him back.

He grins.

Yes, this is a sweet homecoming. 


End file.
